Snow & Ashes
by sayaanara
Summary: He's a transfer student studying in Detroit, entranced by the senior with the snow white hair. When they agree to help one another in the name of friendship, Yuuri's convinced nothing could possibly go wrong. Or could it?
1. Bet

**A/N:** Victuuri hell here I come.

* * *

 **.: Snow & Ashes :.**

.: Chapter I: Bet :.

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Sleep is banging on his eyelids as he takes a greedy drag of his cigarette, inhaling smoke and ash. It's way past his bedtime, and Yuuri has never been one to stay up after ten o'clock. He's never been one to smoke either, but look at him now. Life sure has a funny way of cajoling us to doing what we always swore to never do.

 _Those cigarettes will kill ya,_ he can almost hear his mother say.

 _A proper skater always gets his rest!_

Sorry Ma, he thinks to himself, staring at the dwindling cig perched between the knuckles of his pointer and middle finger. He studies his own hand, how it curls and holds the cigarette, and wonders why it is that it looks so damn awkward to him. How can other people seem so confident and proper when they smoke, and he gives off the impression of an inexperienced child? Well, perhaps that's because he _is_ an inexperienced child. Inexperienced at smoking. Inexperienced at almost everything in life, to be honest.

Yuuri sighs.

He sure misses home, but life ain't all that bad as a transfer student. Sure, sometimes he has trouble speaking English and understanding what is said to him and his lack of a social life forces him to awkward scenarios—like going to a bar, say, the way he is doing right now—but leaving Japan for the grandness of Detroit in pursuit of his dreams has proven to be, well, quite the adventure.

He's taken up smoking. Given up on sleep. Discovered what it is to stay up until five in the morning studying only to go to practice at seven and skate for hours on end with stamina he conjures from Lord knows where. College has almost made him into a new man. A better one, if he could even say that.

He gazes up at the night sky, and it occurs to him that no matter where he is in the world, be it Japan or Detroit or the middle of nowhere, the moon will always look the same. He shares the same moon with the entire planet. How wonderful is that?

And precisely at that moment, as his lips slide into a smile and his gaze drops back to the earth, he sees him.

Him.

Leaving the bar, his sneakers squelching quietly against the wetness of the ground. With his silver, snowy hair and his red leather jacket; his calm, azure eyes and gentle gaze. Yuuri has seen him on campus plenty of times before, but this is his first time seeing him outside of school. And it hits him how different he looks at nighttime, as if his hair absorbs the light of the stars, glinting off his features and his eyes and the pert, impossible point of his nose. He looks unreal, carved from the most exquisite marble. And Yuuri would be lying if he said his breath didn't lodge itself in his throat when the stranger hauls his eyes onto him, his gaze weighing as heavy as the weariness that clings to his eyelids.

"Hey," he says, pulling out a pack of Malboros from his jacket pocket. "You got a light?"

Yuuri stammers.

"A-Are... Are you talking to me?"

The man smiles, dimples denting the flesh of his cheeks. "Well," his voice rolls from his lip like honey dripping off the edge of a knife. Sweet. Dangerous. "There isn't anyone else around here, is there?"

Abashed, Yuuri looks around.

He's right.

"Sorry," he mumbles, handing him his lighter. He watches the stranger flick its edge with a few unsuccessful clicks until he's able to produce a steady flame, sucking in one long inhale before removing the butt from his mouth and exhaling a long cloud of pallid smoke.

"Thanks." And he gives the lighter back to him.

They stand in silence, and Yuuri isn't brave enough to ask him for his name, strike up any form of conversation. They gaze at the moon above together, two waves pulled by its astounding gravity. And when he finally gleans the courage to part his lips and suck in a breath to inquire, the man steps on his cigarette, extinguishing it, and leaves.

Yuuri takes another drag, pretending not to feel so disappointed.

 **—o—**

"You're back!"

His friend practically pounces toward him. He catches her drunken frame with a quiet grunt. "Minako," he wheezes, bearing her entire weight. "Please," just as she curls her arms around him in her strong viper grip, squeezing.

"I love you," she murmurs sloppily.

"Minako," he cries.

She only lets go once she's sure he's no longer breathing. The lady's fierce like that. "I've been struck with the most wonderful idea," she tells him then, grinning through a pair of auburn lips. "I've found the solution to our problem."

And what is the problem, you may ask? Well, before leaving to smoke, his fellow transfer student and him were talking about the trifles of college, how difficult it is to make friends in a foreign country. But Minako's been having the time of her life. Boys are calling her up left and right, bewitched by her entrancing beauty and seamless charm. It seems that only Yuuri is socially inept enough to make a grand of zero new friends since moving here.

So she says she's found the solution.

And it's: "We need to get you laid."

"Laid!?"

"You heard me," her eyes slosh around in their sockets, bistre hair falling over her shoulder all to one side. She picks up her cup, the ice swimming in the liquid within it clinking against the glass. "You need to"—hiccup—"have sex."

But Yuuri has never had sex in his life.

"No," he says plainly, which makes his good friend groan.

He isn't going to tell her that he's only ever had one girlfriend, and that all that ever mounted to was a few coy pecks on the cheek and some very awkward and sweaty-palmed hand holding.

"Oh, come on!" Minako squawks, giving him a gentle (not so gentle) shove. "Why not make it a bet, then?"

Yuuri raises his brows. "A bet?"

"I betcha that you can't get laid in the next two days." And this is her grand solution? Really? This? " If you lose, you get to make my lunch for the rest of the semester."

Yuuri chortles at that. His friend's out of her mind. He thinks to dismiss her, gazing around the bar at all the strangers nursing their drinks, the people clamoring victoriously around a game of pool a few feet away. Taking a small sip of his own drink, he tests, "And what happens if I win?"

"I don't know. What do you want to happen?"

He doesn't have to think about it long, for his friend is a ballerina, and ballet and figure skating have a lot more in common than one would initially guess.

"You teach me new moves for my skating," he grins, and Minako flits a hand in the air as if his request were a fly she were swatting away.

"Gah, you and your skating."

He squints at her through foggy glasses, droning, "Deal or no deal?"

She pouts, thin lips scrunched together in a little point. "Fine," she says, unwilling to let him off the hook so easy. And before Yuuri can fully realize what he's just agreed to, she's throwing an arm around his shoulders and announcing, "Deal." She takes his hand in hers. Shakes it vigorously. "You're on, baby."

Yuuri's already accepting his defeat by the time his eyes land on a figure in red.

It's him again.

He's hunched over a pool table, his spine curled forward, holding the end of a cue in his right hand, the left splayed open to balance the tip between his parted fingers. And he moves with such finesse. Everything about him feels so eloquent, so delicate, his motions spurred by the precise certainty of a man who is sure of himself and his place in the world. His bangs have fallen over his eyes, hiding one side of his face so that Yuuri has to imagine what lays beneath. The sharp edge of his cheekbones. The pale eyelashes that fan outward. The smooth ridge of his nose. All phantoms and yet very much there.

But then Minako shouts, "To sex!" holding up her glass, interrupting his stupor.

Yuuri clinks his glass to hers before taking a big swig of his drink, washing down the taste of ash in his mouth with a sear that stings like a trail of fire. He grimaces, shakes his head rapidly, and Minako downs the rest of her drink before chortling and asking for a second round.

"To sex," he says quietly, and the man with the snow hair is pumping his arm backwards before tapping it forward and sending all the pool balls scrambling across the table, bouncing against the edges and rolling into every hole. He's sunken all of them. Lost. And Yuuri watches as he groans loudly, wondering what the sound might taste like trapped between his lips.

He'll drink to that.

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 **A/N:** Thanks so much for reading! Be sure to review/follow if you would like to see more. I will be changing the summary and adding more tags once chapter one is out. Needless to say, I'm glad to be a part of a new fandom. Also, you can message me on tumblr at natiwati if you wish to speak to me through there. Have a good one!


	2. Eros

**A/N:** Help. These dorks are ruining my life.

* * *

 **.: Snow & Ashes :.**

.: Chapter 2: Eros :.

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A party.

That's where he needs to go in order to win the bet, Minako carols. Where there's endless music, endless faces, endless possibilities. Yuuri blanches at the thought of such a thing. He's managed to complete a full semester of college without attending a single party, and he's not about to start now.

"But first," his friend slams a hand on the kitchen counter she's sitting on, nearly spilling some beer on herself from the force. It's only ten in the morning, but she's already going at it. "We need to set some ground rules."

"Ground rules?" Yuuri asks, peering up at her over the rim of his glasses. The spoonful of cereal he was about to shovel into his mouth stops mid-air. "What ground rules?"

"For our bet." She hiccups, excusing herself. And even though she's having beer for breakfast ("It's Saturday, Yuuri! I'm allowed to drink as much as I want on Saturdays!") and he can tell she's fast on her way to being tipsy already, Yuuri marvels at his friend's beauty, fleetingly contemplating winning the bet by bedding her. But then images flash through his mind of her naked, of her panting, of her clawing at his skin and he feels the tips of his ears burn red and a flush of embarrassment trickle down his belly, whereas the bile that rises at the back of his throat resembles his disgust. God. Nothing against Minako, of course, but he could never... yeah. Not with her.

In fact, not with anybody.

Yuuri munches on his fruit loops as she continues, briefly contemplating telling her that he feels—and always has felt—zero physical attraction towards another living being. But truly, it's not like that would make a difference when it cames to his friend's tedious stubbornness.

"First," she holds up a finger, "whomever you hook up with has to be cute."

"Alright," Yuuri drones, because he knows already that victory is as good as hers. There's no way he's gonna win this thing. He has as much sex appeal as a squelchy fart.

"Second," she grins, a lock of brown hair falling over her eyes, hiding their mischievous little twinkle. "You have to know their name and grade. Then report them to me."

"God," he moans, staring into his cereal. The dull colored rings float about the milk's surface, flavorless and damp. "Anything else?"

"One last thing." And she hops off the counter to fling her empty beer bottle in the trash bin, plucking out a new one from his fridge. Yuuri's not one to drink much, but he keeps his supply full in case his friend ever visits, like she's doing right now.

Yuuri wishes that she wasn't.

He's only been up for a couple of minutes, but he already misses his bed. He watches as she uncaps the bottle with a mild pop, her alabaster throat stretching back and bobbing with every greedy gulp. She sighs with delight, wiping her mouth with the edge of her wrist before finally concluding as she points a finger at him, "You have to enjoy it."

Yuuri nearly pees himself, he laughs so hard.

Minako's eyes go wide, then she glowers at him, peeved. "I'm serious, Yuuri!"

"I know you are." But doesn't she know him well enough by now? Doesn't she see him? There's no way he's getting laid. He's the epitome of awkwardness, having never traipsed over the hurdle of pre-pubescent uncertainty and self-doubt. But it's cute that she's setting all these rules as if he stands a chance. He's almost flattered.

Almost.

His gorgeous friend sighs, shaking her head. Then she plops on his couch with a faint grunt, her shirt rucking up to her waist, her small belly slightly bloated from all the beer she's drinking. "Despite what you may think, Yuuri," she smirks suddenly, feline gaze prowling his way, "I have faith in you."

He coughs.

"Fine." Because he can't possibly say no to that smile, to those eyes and the googly way they watch him. To his only friend. And she smiles brightly at his surrender, but he doesn't let her think she's won completely when he adds, "But I'm not going to that party, you hear?"

 **—o—**

He goes to that party.

"Darn it," he sighs, glaring at the insides of his Solo cup. Damn Minako and her ability to coax him into doing mindless things. "God." And it's so obvious that he doesn't belong. He's spent two hours already just sitting by a corner petting the host's cat.

He wants to go home.

Screw this bet, he thinks. He's not even that desperate for new moves anyway! Okay, fine, maybe he is. Because the redundancy and blandness of his life has begun to reflect in his artistry. Last time he competed, he was disqualified for being unable to land jumps and master his movements. And this is why he thinks he'd such a shitty partner. His brain and body aren't even connected anymore. He can't do that little thing ballerinas do where it looks like they carry the music, instead of just dancing to it.

Shiz dang it. He really needs to win this stupid bet.

Just think of a succulent pork cutlet, he tells himself. He just has to think of his favorite dish. Because what renders him weaker than food? What whets his being quite as fervently as a juicy, steaming plate prepared by Ma? If he could just pretend… just pretend that whomever he hooks up with is a pork cutlet… well, he sure as heck can do that. Right?

Yeah. Sure.

God, this is hopeless.

Minako is a few feet away chatting with some senior, sparing a couple of glances or so Yuuri's way to see how he is doing every now and then. And he hasn't moved in two hours but now, with renewed purpose, he stands. He quickly vanishes from sight, hunting for his succulent pork cutlet. He stops a couple of times, hesitant, unsure, insecure. Because sex is really scary. Turds, man, sex is super scary. But maybe he doesn't have to get fully laid. Maybe all he has to do is earn himself a hickey or two and there, Minako will stop pestering him about his lack of a social life and leave him be— but not before teaching him how to move like a proper skater again.

It seems that he's forgotten how to do that. It seems that he's forgotten how to properly be himself.

Yuuri clears his throat, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. His hands shake, so he decides that the best way to approach this issue is to, well, just get sloppy drunk. So he tells Minako to get him some beers, downs them all in a couple of minutes, and waits.

"You alright?" he hears her ask him some moments later.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he hears himself say.

And there. Bingo. He's drunk AF.

Pork cutlet, he thinks. Pork cutlet. Pork cutlet, pork cutlet.

Trudging through the crowd of people, he suddenly finds himself swaying to the music. He moves. Dances. Closes his eyes and loses himself to the shifts and swells around him, the rhythm, its rises and its dips. And he summons the remnants of a sequence he'd performed once, his feet aching with the need to glide, to fly, to roll across the rink in gilded, flowing rivulets. He moves until he feels a body pressed against his, and when he turns to face it and opens his eyes, the figure clashes against him with the force of a tsunami, its waves lapping at the naked expanses of his skin, tearing through bone and flesh to pull him out of himself.

Yuuri closes his eyes again.

And he pictures two eyes that hold the sky, that glint with all its essence. Eyes that squint when they smile, two dimples that flare on the surface of pallid cheeks. He pictures a body that is conducted by its master, that bends and swings by primal instinct. And then something animalistic and utterly unlike him comes alive, roaring in his being.

It's moments later that he catches himself swaying to a different song: silence. It billows and it beats, thumping away at his head as streams of starlight pour over his face, run down his body. His clothes are too constricting, too tight, and the angel frees him, releasing him of its throttling hold. He's bare against the floor of a foreign bedroom, and it's all just a dream, the desperate vestiges of his imagination flaring. But then soft lips crash against his and a darkness overwhelms him. He runs his fingers through spills of gray and whispers, "Minako?"

But the voice answers back, "No."

And it's too coarse to match its gentle demeanor. For a second, Yuuri feels betrayed. He thinks the angel's left, morphed into this beast. But then breathless pulses thump at his ribcage and cascade from his gaping mouth in an outpour of breath, for pliant lips find his flesh and nip, suck, before they take him in and swallow him.

Aghast, tumbling among the throes of ecstasy, Yuuri has forgotten how to breathe.

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 **A/N:** Ah, you didn't think I'd give you the smut that easily, did ya? Review/follow/fave if you would like to see more and, as always, thanks for reading! :)

 **PS:** I have a headcanon that Yuuri doesn't curse. I just think him saying "shiz whizz" instead of shit is really adorable ok


	3. Lost

**A/N:** I keep updating this story quickly because the chapters are a lot shorter compared to my other stories and take far less time to write. That, and I can't stop thinking about the OTP. Enjoy!

* * *

 **.: Snow & Ashes :. **

.: Chapter 3: _Lost_ :.

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He wakes up.

On a stranger's bed, covered by a stranger's blanket, with his head on a stranger's pillow inhaling a stranger's scent.

He's alone. It's dark.

A hazy 9:38 AM blinks at him from a faraway alarm clock, and Yuuri cannot shake the massive thumping it evokes. His head wails with a pulsing pain that makes him feel as if his brain were being smashed from the insides of an accordion. He groans, hauling himself to a sitting position, slumping forward and wincing from the pain.

Everything hurts. Everything.

His legs, his arms, his back. He'd danced too much last night.

Yuuri balks.

Wait.

Crap.

Last night. What actually happened? He can't recall a thing. The last thing he remembers is… is…

Nothing.

Oh, no.

He gasps. Feeling for his clothes around his body, shaky hands meeting nothing but bare skin. He gasps again, this time louder, and clambers for the alarm clock, using its dull red glow to light the way as he searches for a switch among the walls. It's so friggin' dark in here. He steps on a piece of cloth before picking it up, feeling it with blind fingers, praying that it's his shirt before remembering that he's butt naked and using it to cover his crotch. His heart thrashes wildly in his chest. Amid the eerie darkness of this place, he can feel imaginary eyes lurking. Pointing. Laughing.

He groans out of frustration, the beating of his migraine worsening, causing him snivel a small cry. With his hand against the wall, he prays to find a door, a light, anything. And then his fingers press a button and he feels a wash of immense relief.

That is quick to fade, though, because what happens is that a slit of brilliant light—far too bright—tears through the darkness of the room, spilling in from a very large window that practically takes up an entire wall. Growing. Growing. And Yuuri stands frozen as the large curtain zips up, revealing him in all his naked splendor to what looks like the entire college campus.

He screams.

His hands scramble to cover his bum as he turns around to dart through the room just as strangers' eyes outside begin to land on him. In his frenzy, he catches clear glimpses of his surroundings, feeling like a lab rat dropped into a plastic little experiment room. What will happen to him? How will the little rat survive?

This almost feels like a setup.

But he knows that this is all entirely his fault. Drunk Yuuri's fault.

(Curse you, drunk Yuuri.)

Gazing around, he sees that he is alone, but with the gigantic window open, far too many eyes accompany him. So he rushes to find the rest of his clothes, retrieving his belt, his glasses strewn haphazardly under the bed, his boxers dangling by a lamp shade, shoes laying flat on the carpeted floor.

Beige. Beige carpet. It seems to stretch on and on along the sheer immensity of this room. It's darn huge! It stretches wider and longer than Yuuri's very apartment. He's quick to pull the shirt he had retrieved in the darkness over his head even though it doesn't belong to him, even though it smells strongly of another being. He can't find his own, so he gives up. People stroll on by outside and keep on sparing glances into the room through the window whose curtain he's not sure how to close.

He avoids it like a laser beam.

He just needs to get home.

Hurrying to get dressed, Yuuri doesn't even bother putting on his shoes as he bolts out of the bedroom, leaving behind its rich, cologne scent. Its warmth. All the figure skating trophies that lined the walls and copious band posters. This dream of a place he might as well have fathomed, created from the desperation of his own mind. All of it left behind, to rot away as yet another unwanted event of his past.

He prickles at the way his skin seems to absorb its scent, wafting off into his nostrils.

His eyes close, and all he sees is a flash of silver, the iridescent shine of glinting eyes. The tumbling of gasps as they exit lips. The taste of groans as they rumble at the backs of throats. The scratch of nails from clawing, starving hands.

Yuuri wants to scream.

God, he needs to get out of here!

He finds himself in a narrow hallway, his brain trying frantically to retrieve the events of last night to piece up at least some fragment of what led him here. But he can't remember anything coherent. Only heat, lights, dancing. And part of him thinks he'd merely ice skated, remembering the way his body seemed to glide, how he flew, crumbled, fell. The raw disappointment of losing. All of it was there last night. All of it is still there.

"Focus," he raps to himself, tiptoeing through the stranger's home. It seems to be vacant, as only the occasional beep of the fire alarm echoes through the walls every few beats. Still, he makes not a single noise, traipsing along until he descends the stairs one meticulous footstep at a time, and slinks out the front door and into the big, cruel world.

The pale glow of daylight momentarily blinds him. It's a few seconds before his eyes adjust and he sees that he's in a neighborhood right near campus. Not bothering to ask himself how the word he got _here_ of all places, Yuuri treks on—or, well, runs, really—to his apartment on the other side of town. The ground is cold and littered with fragments of ice that prick the soles of his bare feet with sharp, frozen jabs. He scrambles to put his shoes on, glasses nearly falling off his face in the process, and sprints with a stamina he's not sure where he conjures from. His legs burn. His muscles ache. He tells himself it's just because of all that dancing.

 _What dancing?_ his brain peeps.

He promptly reminds it to be quiet.

 **—o—**

Minako is nowhere to be seen.

She was supposed to crash at his place with him, but it seems that Yuuri wasn't the only one who had a sleepover. He remembers that senior she'd been talking to, and slips his phone out of his jean pocket, unlocking it, running his eyes over the six unread text messages it bears.

From Minako Okukawa, 9:34 PM: **where are you?**

From Minako Okukawa, 9:35 PM: **you okay?**

From Minako Okukawa, 10:07 PM: **Yuuuuuuuuuuuuri!**

From Minako Okukawa, 11:49 PM: **oh shit are you serious?**

From Minako Okukawa, 11:49 PM: **HIM!?**

From Minako Okukawa 11:50 PM: **way to go hot stuff!**

What.

Yuuri blanches. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes. Opens them.

WHAT!?

He pants, sliding his finger across Minako's name, calling her.

He waits. Deep, monotonous rings drone in his ear.

No answer. Straight to voicemail. He wants to cry.

"Minako!" he whispers sharply, realizing that the tremor against the shell of his ear is his hand's grasp on his own cellphone. "God, where are you? Please call me when you get this. We need to talk."

He hangs up. A dull ache stings his neck. He rubs a hand on it, and it burns like a bee sting. His clothes and skin and hair all smell like that apartment, like some stranger's scent, like cigarette smoke and poignant cologne and bed sheets and something else he can't describe, so he makes a beeline to his bathroom, stripping, plunging into a hot bath.

As he marinates in the steaming soup, he catches his reflection on the water's surface. _Who am I?_ He wonders, gazing at the ghostly face that stares back. He washes it away with a gentle sweep of his hand, the face distorting into imperfectible fragments. He sighs, sinking deeper into the water, raising an arm to douse it in soap when he sees it. It. And it's blue and purple and ugly.

"Is that—?" He asks himself, squinting to see better. "Is that a bruise?"

Oh, sweet baby Jesus.

Jumping out of the tub, he rushes to the mirror. Scrutinizes. Panics. There's blue and purple speckles scattered all across his naked body, lined specifically around his neck and chest. He looks as if he'd been wrestling with a tasmanian devil.

With tentative fingers, he feels one of the bruises, pressing, wincing when it screams. He doesn't even bother wondering whether he'd truly won this stupid bet, because these all look—these all are—hickeys. Hickeys! On him! Him!

"It can't be," he says to himself. Because who could possibly want him? Who would be crazy enough to sleep with him? Of all people? Him? Yuuri grabs his glasses and slides them over his eyes, the hazy image before him clearing. And he should be happy because the pieces all finally line up. He'd hooked up last night, won the stupid bet after all. But Yuuri doesn't feel proud. He doesn't feel happy. A hot, sticky goo slithers its way into his heart, and it weighs so heavy. It ignites, flaring. And it's not long before Yuuri realizes what burns him.

Shame.

 **—o—**

He should hate alcohol after what it did to him last night, but he doesn't know where else to go. So he visits a pub on Main Street, orders some generic bourbon, and stares deeply into the glass, his lips chapped, moistened by the dense liquid as he brings it to his mouth to down a sip.

He's sad. Sad because he can't remember something as important as last night. Sad because this dumb bet was never anything to be proud of to begin with. Sad because he is alone, always alone, and nobody in their right mind could possibly want him. He briefly wonders whom the girl could've been, but then he remembers Minakos texts ( _Seriously? HIM!?_ ) and his stomach plummets. He's broken. And all his life, he's known he's had a special appreciation for boys, if he could even call it that. But the thought that he might've slept with one… Well, that's… That's something else entirely. Something else he isn't ready to acknowledge. To admit.

But there's no way to know if he actually had sex, he reasons. For all he knows, he might've just vigorously made out. Right? Yeah! But then what about the hickeys? What about that room? What about waking up butt naked?!

Yuuri groans, catching his face in his hands. He can feel the tears coming when a finger suddenly pokes his side with tremendous, agitated force. He jumps, turns, anger and mild intoxication tinting his cheeks red as he turns to call Minako's name, ask her where she's been, what in the world happened to her and him and everyone last night, when suddenly he's met with smoldering, young green eyes and a thick Russian accent.

"Excuse me," the boy scowls, his long blond hair falling over his eyes. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Um…" Yuuri stalls, gazing at him with large, shocked eyes. "Drinking?"

"Not that, you idiot." And he's incredibly rude for someone who seems to be speaking to his senior. But Yuuri has to remind himself that the culture here is not like Japan's. Respect is not given off as freely, so he's already done with this conversation before it's even began. Unable to be bothered, he just clears his throat and summons his most patient, complacent voice.

"I'm sorry," he answers simply, "but I don't have time for this right now."

"Yuri!"

They both jump.

It's him.

The stranger Yuuri had shared a cigarette with some nights ago appears beside them. With his snow white hair. Sky blue eyes. Boyish dimples. And the smell of poignant cologne and cigarettes and bed sheets and something else that can't be described floods Yuuri's senses. And then alarms go off in his head because he'd worked so hard to get the smell off him. But then he realizes that the smell isn't coming from him. That it's coming from these strangers, from this building, from the fiery gaze that studies him.

"Hold on, Victor. I am dealing with this imbecile," the young boy says, and Yuuri is about to protest—

"Hey, who are you calling an imbecile!"

—when suddenly all eyes are on him, glaring and accusing because—

"You are wearing my shirt."

His shirt. Wearing it.

And Yuuri parts his lips to speak, to cry, to condone himself for the fact when suddenly vomit erupts from his gaping mouth and lands on the young green eyes and the long blond hair and just everywhere, everywhere, _everywhere_.

Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse, the taller man grips Yuuri's shoulders firmly, steadying him. His hand on his shoulder sends a small shock coursing through his system. He's about to pass out. From the shock. From the hangover mixed with the bourbon and the force he expelled vomiting.

"Are you okay?" the man with snow hair—Victor?—asks, seemingly to both Yuuri and… Yuri?

The small blond stands frozen in his shock, vomit splattered on his face and shirt. When he snaps back to his senses, his eyes are scorched with anger. "Why, you—" He grips Yuuri by the collar of his shirt, pulling back an arm with a balled fist aimed straight to his glasses.

"Yurio!" Victor demands, his voice hoarse. "No."

And its noises Yuuri's heard before, voices that have carried words he'd absorbed just the night before. Yurio's fist shakes in the air, hanging. Victor gives him a stern look, then gazes once again at Yuuri.

"What is your name, stranger?" he asks him. Yuuri straightens in his seat, tears spilling from his eyes and rolling down his cheeks and off his chin.

He says, "My name is Yuuri Katsuki."

He says, "I am an exchange student from Japan."

He says, "My friend Minako dared me to lose my virginity last night."

He says, "And I think I lost it to one of you."

And that is when fist meets temple and the world turns upside down before flashing, all at once, to black.

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 **A/N:** Thanks for reading, as always. Please be sure to comment and depending on the responses, we can expect to see another chapter soon. My tumblr is natiwati, in case any of you would like to contact me there. Have a good one!


	4. Found

**A/N:** I have to admit, things are turning out differently than what I had initially planned, but I'm just gonna ride the wave with this one. Please be sure to review/fave/follow if you enjoy the story and would like to see more! And, as always, thank you kindly for reading!

* * *

 **.: Snow & Ashes :.**

.: Chapter IV: _Found_ :.

* * *

They're roommates.

Yuri Plisetsky and Victor Nikiforov. Freshman and senior. Russian exchange students. Figure skaters. Both.

Yuuri doesn't object when Victor carries his sobbing frame back to his place, because Yurio is drenched in his vomit and his eyes are full of rage and Yuuri is so ashamed, so beside himself. So _sore_.

"Ouch," he groans as daggers of pain cut up his body, the throbbing that wails at his temple beneath his cupped hand. His eye is puffy and purple already, glasses all crooked and smashed from Yurio's blow. It's a shame, really. They were his best pair.

But Yuuri doesn't blame him.

Heck, Yuuri would've gladly punched himself. He's just glad it was someone else who did it.

"Hold this to your eye." Victor hands him an ice pack from the freezer, taking a seat on the kitchen table and motioning for him to do the same.

As Yuuri's butt meets the rigid seat, he flinches at the loud stomps of Yurio ascending the stairs to take a shower. He hadn't said a word to Yuuri after punching him, nor to Victor after promptly giving him a scolding. But part of Yuuri suspects that he feels bad for what he did to him, for a ruddy hue had invaded his cheeks and his green eyes never rose to meet him thereafter.

"Yurio's a good kid," Victor sighs, the stomping subsiding with a loud bang of a door. Awkward seconds pass and then they hear the water running through the ancient pipes of this ancient house in this ancient kitchen.

Yuuri's eyes pool with tears. "I'm sorry," he whispers, the words trembling on his lips. "It's all my fault."

His subtle Japanese accent is met with a coarse Russian one.

"Nonesense."

And they speak no more.

Yuuri sniffles pathetically, so horribly ashamed of himself. He knows for a fact that last night could be blamed—judging by his reaction—partly on Yurio. So was he the one he hooked up with? Is that why he is wearing his shirt? Is that why he is here, in this place— _again_ —after escaping this morning?

Everything feels as if part of a dream.

Fathomed.

Untrue.

But Victor's eyes are honest, _honest_ , and heavy on him, so deep and blue that Yuuri fears they'll suck him in and swallow him. A sigh. Soft. And even his breath carries a foreign lilt to it, a quality only he can possess. His sterling hair falls over his eyes, twin plumes of eyelashes fanning outward from his face. They flutter subtly as he blinks into space, then come alive with the animated way he straightens, blue eyes back on Yuuri.

He gulps.

"Hey," Victor smiles, his dimples flashing, two tiny shadows adorning both sides of his lovely face. "I think I can help you."

Yuuri has to wait a moment. Wait a moment and think. Really, really, really think whether he'd heard him right.

"Huh?" he squeaks insipidly, wiping a stray tear from his pulsing cheek. "How?"

"Well…" Suddenly, Victor wrenches the neck of his sweater lower, so that the crimson mark on his otherwise flawless skin gawks at him. "Do you see this?"

Yuuri nods.

"I do not recall where I got it. But this happens all the time to me. Heck, I've stopped stressing about it. So don't sweat it, okay? There are worse things in life."

Oh. Right. Okay.

Was that supposed to make him feel better?

"But it was my virginity," Yuuri sobs, his lips quivering, twin rivulets pouring affluently down his cheeks. Through a foggy film of tears, he sees how Victor tenses, panic coursing through his eyes. "It was so important and I just— I just—"

"Please don't cry."

"I just threw it away!"

"Stop crying, please."

"I can't believe myself!"

"Please."

"I hate this stupid bet!"

"Bet?"

"I deserve to be beat! Yurio should've—"

"Yuuri." Victor's hands are heavy on his shoulders. Real. They tighten their grip on him and shake him subtly but hard enough so that Yuuri's words rattle uselessly in his mouth. "Enough."

Enough.

Yuuri blanches.

"I'm sorry," it's a whisper, said to the floor. And he can feel the warm trickle of embarrassment flush to hot, dense shame. His eyes are glued to the ground below them, when suddenly a cold hand moves from his shoulder to hold his face.

It lifts his chin.

Up.

Up.

Up.

Until he's gazing dismally at Victor.

"You do that too much," he tells him, his pale eyebrows knitted together in a frown. Yuuri can only blink his tears away. He can only cough and gasp and blink and say:

"What?"

Victor smiles benevolently. There's starlight in his eyes. "Stop apologizing," he breathes, his breath stealing across Yuuri's face. He can see the sprinkling of freckles on his cheeks, the pert tip of his small nose pointing upward. And Yuuri thinks of the man he'd seen outside the bar only some nights ago, how he never would've dreamed to be where he finds himself right now. And then, at that very second, Victor lets go of Yuuri, heaving out a sigh. His chest sinks with the effort, lowering the neck of his sweater so that a sliver of bruised skin peeks out. "Stop asking for forgiveness so much."

"I'm sorry."

Blue eyes roll dejectedly, but they say nothing.

Silence wafts into the room, creeping into the spaces around them. Yuuri blinks through what's left of his glasses to peer at the strange man beside him. And he can hardly believe that they are here, now, like this, talking. Because what are the odds? They're both exchange students. Both figure skaters. Both male. Both sitting here with hickeys on their necks and no recollection of the past evening.

Both lost.

Both _human._

A pair of fools, Yuuri thinks, but then realizes that he must exclude Victor from this equation. Because there is no remorse present in his visage, not a trace of worry or self-doubt. He is the opposite of Yuuri in every sense. Where Yuuri's coy, he is animated. Where Yuuri falters, he stands strong. Where Yuuri's black and brown and traces of cigarette smoke and ashes, Victor is the virgin expanse of just-fallen snow. Pure. Unmarred.

Laid out all in front of him.

Yuuri clears his throat.

"I can help you find who you hooked up with last night," Victor voices finally, his sharp eyes like glass, cutting into him. "But I'll tell you one thing, it wasn't Yurio."

Yuuri shakes his head, sniffling. "No?"

"No. He already has someone. Plus, he's not at all into hook-up culture. There is no way."

"Then, who could it be?"

Victor laughs. He… he just laughs.

"Guess we'll find that out, won't we?" he asks Yuuri, grinning so widely his cheeks stuff his eyes into his face. They disappear. Their friendly little light—gone.

Yuuri wipes snot from his nose with his shirt sleeve. Upstairs, Yurio has finished with his shower; the water has stopped running. But there are no footsteps. No slamming of doors. Only their breaths in the air and Yuuri's voice as it bludgeons its way through his lips to utter, "Are you saying…"

"I'm saying will help you find them." Victor stares down at his hands. And it's so unnatural, so odd, to witness him in this manner. A being like him should never be this dimmed, this muted. Yuuri moves his mouth to speak but then Victor comes alive just as suddenly, smiling from ear to ear. "But you need to do one thing for me in exchange, got it?"

Yuuri's eyes widen. Warily, he tests, "And what is that?"

And no bruises, no soreness, no amount of broken glasses or angry Yurios could ever prepare him for what comes next:

"Be my friend."


	5. Strangers

**A/N:** I've decided to keep the chapters for this story short, like a real book, so that updates come more often and the story is split into even segments. Honestly, the plot keeps changing as I go along, and I am just going to allow this to become whatever it needs to be. Having that said, enjoy!

* * *

 **.: Snow & Ashes :.**

.: Chapter V: _Strangers_ :.

* * *

His lungs are teeming with smoke, mouth full of ash, lips so chapped they scrape the cigarette butt as he pulls in a long, eager drag that leaves him light-headed. He can feel the black mist slip into his lungs, curling, suffocating, before sliding out of his nostrils in dense tendrils that drift off into the air.

Yuuri sighs.

"Minako," he says when his friend appears at his apartment, bearing a flashy smile that falters the moment her eyes land on him.

"Yuuri!" she proclaims, her body jolting forward but stopping midway to giving him a hug. She stands far away from him, wets her lips, smooths an unruly lock of hair behind her ear. "I…"

"You left me last night," he says drily, pulling the cigarette away from his mouth. "Why did you leave me?"

She stares at a speck of dust on his glasses, swallowing. "I wanted you to win the bet—and you did!"

Yuuri wilts sadly, extinguishing the cigarette in his drink. It dies with a quiet hiss, spewing a line of smoke between them. "Minako, I should've never agreed to that stupid bet."

Her eyebrows come together in a frown. "Why?"

"Because now I can't remember who I slept with. Do you know who it was?"

His friend stares straight ahead, twirling a lock of hair in her fingers, a nervous habit he recognizes. "N-No… No, I don't." She steps closer, and he sees that her neck is lined with hickeys, though she shows no signs of shame or embarrassment toward the fact—unlike him. Suddenly, her visage clouds over with worry, a look he hates to see her wear. "Yuuri, why is your face all bruised?"

"What about your text?" he asks her, ignoring her question, trying to harden his voice but it comes out limp, quivering. He stares deep into her eyes, questions, "Minako, did I sleep with a guy?"

"Yuuri, I don't know."

He shakes his head, presses his fingers to his throbbing temples. "You know I can't. My parents—my family. They'd be crushed."

Minako's eyes are sad. She whispers, "I know, Yuuri. I know."

"Who was the text about?"

She shakes her head, plopping onto the seat across from him. Yuuri fidgets on his spot in his kitchen chair, crossing his arms over his chest. His face aches, hurts where Yurio had attacked him, and it is then that glimpses of today's previous events flash over his mind. God. What a day. He'd gained an apology, a lift from Victor back to his home, and, apparently, two new friends. Because "you can always count on us, Yuuri. We'll see you soon!" And everything had left him raw and nervous and confused. Because he wasn't used to the kindness of strangers, to being on the receiving end of a smile that zapped every atom in his body alive.

He clears his throat.

Minako rubs her eyes, her chest sinking with her weary sigh. Her hair's a mess. She's still in last night's clothing. "Last I remember, you were talking with Victor Nikiforov. You know, the Senior from Russia." She pauses to gauge his reaction. Yuuri nods. She continues. "You seemed real friendly so, um, I guess drunk me thought there was something going on?"

Yuuri's the one to sigh now. "He's a guy."

A cirrus of annoyance coils in his friend's eyes. She huffs, "So what, Yuuri?"

"So it can't be him." He runs a hand down his face, wincing when it brushes the swollen skin of his right cheek. "It just can't be. I know it wasn't him."

Minako's eyes grow serious. She scrutinizes him, hugging her legs to her chest. Her chin perched on her knees, her eyes two puddles of heat, she watched him, murmurs, "How do you know? Have you ever seen him with any girls?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Um, well…"

"Personally, I think Victor swings the other way, if you know what I mean."

Yuuri has no answer to give, so he stares as she reaches for the cigarette pack next to his drink, pulling a lighter out of her jean pocket. He eyes the love bites on her neck, wonders how she can wear them so freely, so carelessly, not imprisoned by the carnal whims of her own body.

A cigarette to her mouth, she lights it up and heaves a long cloud of smoke, sighing as the nicotine fills her. They look like a pair of hungover fools, the two of them. Yuuri pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, thinking of the man with silver hair and sky blue eyes that are so clear they look like someone pricked them with a needle and drained all the color out of them. He thinks of him, fights the smile that dawns on his lips.

Victor.

His name pulses in his being. Vibrant and alive.

"He's going to help me find who I slept with," he declares, to which Minako raises her eyebrows, brightens.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"And why would he do that?"

Yuuri feels it—the pain, the heat, the happiness, pooling on his cheeks, staining them ruddy. Sheepishly, he answers, "He says he wants to be my friend."

His friend. Yuuri's friend. Victor.

"Oh?" Minako laughs, a hearty giggle that quakes her chest. She seems amused, pulling the cigarette from her mouth to query, with light dancing in her eyes, "And why is finding who you slept with so important, Yuuri?"

He can't help it when the smile on her lips transgresses to his own. He's quick to bite it away though, to straighten his face into a taut line. "I just need to know."

Minako nods, slowly.

And he doesn't tell her the real reason. The real _why_.

Truth is, he has never been wanted, not like that. Not by anyone. And so finding whomever he gave his body to, or gave their body to him, would be like discovering a facet of himself he didn't even know he had.

Victor had told him that he'd let him crash in his place after everything happened, meaning that whatever occurred had to have taken place there. Did we sleep together, he'd asked him, flinching at the roar of laughter that erupted out of the man. No, he'd told Yuuri. Not a chance.

So who was it?

Who, for a night, was not repelled by his nervousness and anxious banter and sweaty palms? Who, for a moment, glimpsed into his soul and found themselves swarming with desire, reaching out to savor what no one else sees there? In finding them, perhaps he'd be able to pick up where they left off. Redefine himself in a way that allows him to call himself wanted. Necessary.

"Hey, at least I get to teach you ballet now!" Minako grins suddenly, her eyes slanting to small slots. It suddenly hits him that she smells like another man, like the remnants of a night where she was desired. "Isn't that great?"

Yuuri shakes his head at his friend, his best friend, his only friend. "I don't even want your lessons anymore."

At this, Minako rises. She walks toward him, and when she stands, only inches away, cradling his face in her hands, he can smell her shampoo and the stale beer in her breath mixed with the bitter tinge of cigarette smoke. Her sheen lips move tenderly around the vowels of his name. "Yuuri? Look at me."

He does.

"There is no shame in being what you are," she tells him, her eyes all glassy and soft. She swipes his hair away from his eyes, kisses the bruise on his temple. And he clasps her hands by the wrists, gives them a small squeeze, smiles faintly.

"I know," he says. "I know."

But does he, truly?

* * *

 **A/N:** Yeah, Yuuri is hella G A Y, but I have never read a yaoi fic where a character is conflicted by their sexuality so I decided to try it, and I thought that if any of the two would be the one to question themselves, it would be Yuuri, whereas Victor would embrace and accept himself more. And so, with that, thank you for reading! Expect the next chapter very soon, as it will be full of Victor x Yuuri interaction.

HMU on tumblr sayaanara if you have any questions/comments/prompts!


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